  Title: On the Trail of Deserters A Phenomenal Capture Author: Captain Robert Goldthwaite Carter Language: English Produced by Robert A. Brookes and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) ON THE TRAIL OF DESERTERSA Phenomenal Capture By WASHINGTON, D. C. GIBSON BROS., PRINTERS, 1920On The Trail of Deserters. The year of 1871 had been so full of incidents and far reaching results for the Fourth Cavalry and its new Colonel, Ranald S. Mackenzie, that it is somewhat difficult to go back into the dim vistas of that period and select the one incident, or absorbing event which would be either of greatest magnitude or afford the most thrilling interest— This capture of ten deserters, however, under circumstances of more than ordinary importance, since it is believed to be the record capture ever made in the Military Department of Texas, or, perhaps for that matter, of any Military Department in the United States—came about as closely in touch with the writer's life as almost any other experience he ever had while serving as an officer of that regiment—including, as it did, terrible exposure, and unavoidable hardships and privations— Like all of the other Cavalry regiments in our Army, which were then doing about three fourths of all the active, effective work—the work that disables or kills—in the subjugation of the savage tribes in the United States, driving them into Indian reservations, and rendering it possible for the frontier border to be settled, and civilization to be advanced to a point where it could feel safe from raids and bloody incursions, the Fourth U. S. Cavalry, notwithstanding its high morale and almost perfect state of discipline—had its share of desertions— Was Mackenzie a "Martinet" Mackenzie was not a West Point "martinet", as that term is generally understood in our Army—but, from four wounds he had received, three in the Civil War, and one that year in the campaign against Quan-ah Parker, the Una-ha-da Comanche Chief—and almost criminal neglect of his own health, in his intensity of nature and purpose in prosecuting these arduous Indian campaigns—he had become more or less irritable, irascible, exacting—sometimes erratic, and frequently explosive— This much may be said, however, it is certain that notwithstanding his physical condition, and his mental temperament resulting therefrom, he never sought to inflict an injury or punishment upon anybody unnecessarily—never became a petty or malicious persecutor, hounding a man into his grave—and when it became evident to him as well as to others that he had done any of his officers or men an act of injustice, nobody could have been more open, free and frank in his disavowal of that act, or quicker to apologize and render all the reparation possible in his power— This applied to any and all down to the last Second Lieutenant and private soldier in the regiment— One man never knows another so well, even intimately—as when he is thrown closely in contact with or lives and sleeps and eats with him— The writer had done all with Mackenzie during a greater part of this period of 1871—having been his Post Adjutant twice—during Gen. Sherman's inspection in May, at the time of the massacre of Salt Creek Prairie, and prior to our Expedition of that year, and his Field Adjutant on his entire campaign in his abortive attempt to strike Kicking Bird's band of Ki-o-was before he could be stampeded into the Fort Sill Reservation—from May 1st until Oct. 3—I had got to know him very well— Causes for Desertion Both officers and men had been under a terrific high-keyed pressure—a very great mental and physical strain, almost to the breaking point; were tired and dispirited because the results and the hard work performed, had not justified their expectations and because they could not then see any immediate relief from the performance of such exacting duty— The pace had been a little too fast even for the Fourth Cavalry— Much of the spirit and enthusiasm for such unremunerative work was at a very low ebb— While it had not yet approached a complete discouragement, it was a condition of supreme disgust and contempt at the methods employed— They felt that with the Government at Washington nullifying and rendering most of their hard labor abortive, that success in those long, weary and extremely exhausting Indian campaigns was not so much dependent upon their absolute loyalty to duty and perfect willingness to sacrifice themselves when necessary in achieving results, as upon the paralyzing acts and influence of the "Indian Ring" in Washington and the ever changing political cesspools of a politically ridden country— They wanted to see the tangible results or fruits of such terribly hard service and to feel that such hardships, privations and sacrifices as they had experienced, had not been in vain or wasted by a gang of cold blooded, unscrupulous plunderers and grafters remote from the scene of these border activities. We have but recently passed through a similar experience with the same class—in fact are doing it now. Like "death and Taxes," we have them with us always, especially in time of wars— It is then the vultures abound— It is then we have the jelly-fish, spineless slackers, the pussy-foot pacifists—conscientious objectors, chicken hearted shirkers—and—"let George do it" fighters—coming down to the secret renegades—traitors, and Bolshevist anarchists and bomb throwers— They have always been the curse of this Nation—the natural result,—as a rule—of the "Melting Pot" that does not melt—breeding a lot of mongrel curs and hybrids that should no longer be a part of our American life. It is feared they will always be with us— Thus they reasoned—and the propaganda poison spread. These were some of the contributing, but not all of the real causes that led to what soon became almost an epidemic of desertions in the regiment— The last snow storm in which they had floundered and wallowed into Fort Richardson, seemed to have destroyed the last atom of patriotic ardor and martial enthusiasm among even some of the best of our Indian scrappers— The loss of Quan-ah Parker's village in the snow, sleet and hail of that black, awful night on the solitary plateau of the "Staked Plains", when the entire command came so near perishing, and the swiftly moving mass of fleeing panic-stricken Indians was "so near, and yet so far"—had taken nearly all of the gimp, snap, and live-wire spirit out of our hitherto bold Fourth Cavalry warriors— Following this—the terrible monotony of the life—without amusements or recreations of any kind—no athletics or competitions; no libraries—infrequent mails; no hunting except a few men selected on account of their being expert shots (no ammunition then being issued by the Government for that purpose); no theaters or concerts; nothing but the dreary monotonous grind of guard and police duty—detached service, and the rather questionable pleasure they got out of some saloons and gambling hells which generally landed them "broke" and subjects for the guard house and disciplinary measures and more forfeiture of pay, hard labor or other punishment— These were the causes for the desertion epidemic. During this period of unrest and discontent, however, on account of the conditions described, there were few courts martial, nearly all corrective or disciplinary measures being applied by the Troop Commanders through the First Sergeants, under proper restrictions or limitations by the Colonel— "Knock downs" and "drag outs" were not infrequent, and at no extra expense to the Government— Sometimes the victim of an unfortunate "jag" was got under control by a 24 hours sojourn in the "orderly room", a "dip" in a water hole near by, the "boozer" being thrown in a few times "by order", or, if he became too obstreperous, abusive or insubordinate—a "sweat box"—a "30 pound log on a ring", or a "spread eagle on the spare wheel of a caisson" was resorted to to fully control the habitual drunk, shirker or malingerer, all with the knowledge of and under the direct or indirect supervision of the Commanding Officer— On the 29th of November it was reported that ten (10) men had deserted from one troop ("B"), and Mackenzie, thoroughly aroused now by the frequency of these wholesale desertions—took immediate and decisive action. Rock-Ribbed Orders vs. Elastic Verbal Instructions About dark on this day Mackenzie sent in great haste for Lawton and the writer and told us the situation; that he was going to send us out on this special trip in pursuit of deserters and to get ready as soon as possible. He would have a written order for us in a few minutes— We were generously informed that while it was not our turn on the detached duty roster for this service, yet—so and so was too sick—another had a cold—still a third was inefficient, and would never get results—and a fourth could not stand the gaff of a "Norther"—etc., etc.—all so comforting and soothing (?)— We were, therefore, "It"— We were to report to him in 30 minutes. We were each to select any Corporal in the regiment to accompany us— A black, and ominous "Norther" was brewing and it was then beginning to be bitter cold— We reported within the time given with our Corporals—and the following official order was placed in the writer's hands. HEADQUARTERS FORT RICHARDSON, TEXAS, November 29th, 1871. SPECIAL ORDERS NO. 280(Extract) * * * * * V. Second Lieutenant R. G. Carter, 4th Cavalry, with a detail consisting of two non commissioned officers and eleven privates of that Regiment, mounted, fully armed and equipped, furnished one day's rations and sixty rounds of ammunition per man, will proceed at Retreat this day, in pursuit of deserters under the verbal instructions of the Commanding Officer of the Post. The A. C. S. will turn over to Lieut Carter, the sum of ($250) Two hundred and fifty dollars, subsistence funds, for the purchase of subsistence for the men of his detail— The A. A. Q. M. will turn over to Lieut Carter, the sum of ($300) three hundred dollars, Quartermaster's funds, for the purchase of forage for the public animals. By Command of Colonel RANALD S. MACKENZIE, The money was turned over to us by the Post Adjutant—Lawton receiving the same amount—and then turning to both of us—Mackenzie said: "In addition to those orders, I wish to give you special instructions for your guidance in this most important duty you are going on— I shall not expect you to follow them implicitly but to be guided by circumstances arising at the moment—and which, being on the spot, you will know how to deal with better than anybody else—and to use your best judgment and wisest discretion at all times— You are to keep one Corporal with you all the time, taking him into your confidence so far as you may deem it necessary for your success. You are to go in different directions— Lawton is to go on the Decatur road—while you (the writer) are to follow the Weatherford road— You are to cover all of the intermediate settlements near and beyond those towns, seeking at all times the assistance of the Civil authorities and holding out to them the prospect of the Government reward ($30) for the apprehension and delivery to you of each deserter— The towns should only be entered at night and then with a deputy sheriff or other civil officer— It should be systematically and thoroughly searched— Should you find that these deserters have headed for the railroads, and you have traced them that far—and it becomes necessary, drop your detachment, leaving it in charge of one non-commissioned officer, while you take the other with you, continuing the pursuit, even if it leads to Galveston and New Orleans, or, even to New York"—and then, hesitating somewhat—he added—pitching his voice to a high key, and as was his habit—snapping the stumps of his amputated fingers—"I don't want either of you to come back until you have accomplished results— I want these men brought back and punished— Obey the Civil Laws and if they are not violated and you stick to the spirit of your instructions, I will cover all of your acts with a 'blanket order.'" The writer suggested that Lawton and himself, and the Corporals whom we might select to remain with us wherever we went—should go in citizens clothes, since, if we had to "cut loose" from our detachments, we would be able to co-operate more effectively with the Civil Authorities when we might be acting as detectives about the large towns, especially at night— To this Mackenzie readily agreed, saying that it was an excellent and practical suggestion— He included this idea in his instructions— The writer had been at an immense conscript and draft rendezvous during the Civil War—among the worst classes of "substitutes" and "bounty jumpers"—ever known in the history of our Army— They were deserters from every Army and Navy of the world; had come over here for the huge bounties paid under our vicious conscript laws—only to desert—re-enlist and repeat the method again and again— We frequently mingled with them in citizens clothes—got their plans, and either thwarted them or caused their arrest and punishment; On one occasion the execution of two for desertion. We thought that these instructions were very lucid and certainly were very wide sweeping—enough so to satisfy the most exacting soldier— It looked like a winter's job had been cut out for us—and secretly in our hearts—we wished the trail might lead through the places he named. Visions of Galveston, New Orleans and "Little Old New York" loomed up very large—and alluring, for neither of us had visited those attractive "burgs" and elysiums of pleasure—for a long time—but the conditional, or "If" clause in this interview caused us to dubiously shake our heads—with feeling of hope, it is true, but not of elation—and not unmixed with some dread and apprehension for the future, hardly knowing what was before us in this, to us, most novel frontier adventure— It was now nearly dark, and wishing Mackenzie "Good Night", and stepping out into the gloom of approaching night to face the drizzle of a gathering "Norther," we (Lawton and the writer) shook hands and separated, both busily chewing the cud of reflection, inwardly cursing our reputed Civil War efficiency that had led to our selection for such "beastly" service, and industriously trying to digest and assimilate these most elaborate and elastic, carte blanche instructions the "Old Man" had given us— While we felt that in a measure, we were free lances—all freebooters, with nobody to say "Yea or Nay", our own Commanding officers with no one to disturb our independence of thought and action (and with such limited means of communication at that period and under such conditions, one can easily see that no such limitations could be imposed as are placed to-day), we also realized the terrible responsibility so suddenly thrust upon us, and the great risks we ran in dealing with determined men wrought up to such a desperate pitch as they were by alleged acts of injustice—and hard and fast conditions under which they were serving— All this aided, as we felt these men might be, by other equally bad gun-men—all over and down through that country wherever we might trail them. I had selected Corporal John B. Charlton of Troop "F" for my civilian companion— I considered him one of the best non-commissioned officers in the regiment— While he had a free, rollicking, reckless, dare devil spirit about him—he was easily controlled, and perfectly amenable to discipline— He was a very handsome, intelligent, active, energetic man of about 24 years of age—and was on his second 5 years enlistment—his first having been in the Fifth Artillery— He was fully six feet—spare, sinewy, straight as an arrow—an athlete—one of the best riders, shots and hunters, and all round soldiers in the regiment— He had a straight nose—strong chin and steel-blue eyes, the glint of which, when he was aroused—looked dangerous when squinting down the sights of our old Spencer Carbines— He reminded me of that free, rollicksome—"devil-may-care" d'Artagnan, one of the "Three Musketeers"— He probably had a past like many other enlisted men who entered the regular army after the Civil War— If so, for obvious reasons, we never pried into that past. He entered into the spirit and novelty of this new adventure with commendable zeal, energy, spirit and enthusiasm— I felt that I knew my man perfectly, and that, under all circumstances, he would prove absolutely loyal to all duty and be faithful to whatever trust I reposed in him— We were all well mounted, well armed, and had one good, well trained pack mule to carry our grub— We both had guides, the one assigned to the writer being William Rhodes, a rancher, who had been driven in to the shelter of the post by Indians, a very quiet, sturdy, honest and reliable man who knew the country fairly well within a radius of 40 miles, but beyond that his knowledge was no better than my own or any other man in the detachment, besides being one more man to feed and care for after he had got beyond his bailiwick as a post guide— I never took another guide beyond a 50 mile radius. The Pursuit—A Howling "Norther" At 7:15 we made the start—the writer taking the Weatherford stage road across the prairie, a mere trail— The "Norther" broke with full force, with alternate snow, rain, hail and sleet—a heavy gale driving it into our faces— We left the trail and rode into several freighters' camps, where they had sought shelter in the timber, at great risk to our lives—to search for the missing men but without learning anything— They had immense roaring fires which could be seen for a long distance, but so great was their fear of Indians, that we found them up and ready, rifle in hand—and behind their wagon bodies—determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible— It was hard to tear ourselves away from these huge fires—and plunge across the interminable prairies in the teeth of the increasing gale— We were none too warmly clothed— The men and horses—hardly recovered from their year's hard work—were beginning to show the effects and wear and tear of such a frightful storm. Believing that we should all perish if we continued the ride all night, and Rhodes, the guide, agreeing with me—upon his informing me that his brother had a ranch only a mile or two off the road, directions were given to him to head for the ranch by the shortest line so that we could secure the needed shelter— After a fearful struggle over several miles of an open stretch of prairie, breasting into the teeth of one of the worst blizzards ever recorded in Texas, we reached the ranch, the men and horses almost exhausted, and completely coated with ice— The ranch proved to be a low, one story log house, with several out-buildings—a ramshackly horse shed and corn crib— It was midnight— Several dogs announced our approach, and Rhodes aroused his brother— Ordering the men to unsaddle, blanket the horses with their saddle blankets, and to "tie in" under the "lee" of the buildings, the men to occupy the horse shed—Rhodes, the Corporals and the writer stalked into the shelter of the "shack"— There was but one room with a large stone fire place— Rhodes piled on the logs— The room had two beds in it— He and the writer, stripping off our outer frozen clothes, and hanging them up to dry in front of the blaze—occupied one bed—his brother, wife and infant child were in the other, while the two Corporals, with several large ranch dogs, curled up in their blankets on the open hearth— It was a "wild and wooly" night—when the baby wasn't crying the dogs were sniffing, growling, whining or whimpering over being disturbed by such an influx of strangers— We wore out the night with little or no sleep— When day broke it was found that the storm was still raging although the wind had somewhat abated— Feeding the horses liberally from Rhodes' corn cribs, for which we paid him generously—and after a hasty breakfast, we saddled up and started across the prairie to find the road— The country was one sheet of glare ice— Our horses were smooth shod— At the road we met Sergeant Faber of Troop "A" with a small detachment returning from some duty and going into Fort R. We learned from him that the deserters had been seen the night before in Weatherford, which was but a few miles away— We skated, slid and floundered along through the ice crust, a horse going down now and then until we reached a creek about one-half mile from W—— when the command halted and was placed in bivouac, concealed by heavy chaparral— Corporal Charlton was directed to get ready to accompany the writer at dark and afoot for a thorough search of the town and to begin to assume his role— The Search—Amateur Army Detectives—The Corporal's Joke We struck the town under cover of darkness, and proceeded to "comb" it, both heavily armed and with no insignia of rank on or about our citizens clothes or any indication that we were of the army— "Now, Corporal, you are to preserve your incognito— You are to deal with your Commanding Officer as though we are simply two friends or acquaintances on a night's drive through the 'slums'; there are to be no—'Yes, Sir!' or—'No, Sir!'— No deference is to be paid—him— Don't forget your part! You are to be simply—'Green',—and the other party is to be plain 'Brown'— Have your guns handy, and at a given signal be prepared for a quick pull on the trigger— These are all the instructions necessary, except that you are under no circumstances to be separated from me for a moment—and watch me all the time for signals"— Charlton straightened up—saluted—replied—"Yes, Sir"! and that was the last recognition of rank the writer got during this adventure— All night long we plied our trade of amateur detectives— No stone was left unturned— We worked the "dives", faro banks—brothels, saloons and questionable resorts, but without avail— The deserters had been seen but everybody seemed mum and blind or deaf and dumb— They had been paid off for several months—had scattered it—their money—liberally and had left the town— Nobody knew where— At one gilded dive "Green", becoming bold and watching his chance, assuming the detective role with some slight show of experience and with a most startling blasÉ air said to the bespangled proprietress—"Didn't you have a place at one time in Jacksboro"? "Yes"!— "Well, then, you must remember Brown, here", pointing a finger at me— "Oh, yes!" was the reply— "I remember him well, and that he came often and I have often wondered what became of him"— Anger came to the front at this joke—but it had to be choked back—the instructions had been given— No frowns or even scowls or anything but a positive order would have disturbed the imperturbable musketeer Corporal—the d'Artagnan of our adventure at this point. The writer was married and had left his wife and child in the howling gale at Fort R——; and had never seen this "Jezabel"— His outraged dignity sustained a distinct shock— The Corporal was mildly rebuked later and it was passed by as part of the duality of character which Mackenzie had forced me to assume if success was to be assured— Nothing was accomplished by our night's work— At day break, sending the Corporal back to the bivouac of the command, it was ordered to meet me in town at once— Just as we were deliberating what the next move was to be—Sergt. Miles Varily of Troop "E" with a mounted detachment rode into town— He had been to Huntsville, Texas, where he had conveyed Satanta and Big Tree, the Ki-o-wa Indian Chiefs—who had been in confinement at Fort R—— under sentence since July 6—to the State Penitentiary where they were to be confined for life for the massacre of Henry Warren's teamsters on Salt Creek Prairie— Varily had met and talked with the deserters on the Bear Creek Road to Cleburne— He said they were all well armed—and had declared that they would not be taken alive— This—he gave as his reason for not arresting them with his small force— He knew all of them and had identified them as men of Troop "B"— They were in a two-mule freighter's wagon, with a low canvas top drawn down tight for concealment— It was driven by a medium sized, but stocky built—civilian— At last there seemed to be a definite clue— They were evidently heading for Cleburne and Waxahatchie— I must overtake and capture them before they reached Cleburne—which was 45 miles distant, an all day ride— There was no time to lose—placing Charlton in the road—and the other Corporal with his men on both sides fanned out or deployed for a mile or more, and combing all of the ranches and small settlements, the writer pushed and directed the search all of the way without any further developments— Occasionally the detachments were signalled in to the road— Cleburne was reached at dark after a terribly hard ride, the storm still continuing, with a lull in the wind but growing colder— Securing the services of the Deputy Sheriff—we made a thorough search up to one o'clock but with no results. A Sleepless Night—The Gettysburg "Johnny" At 3 o'clock A. M. having sent the Corporal to bed and placed the men in bivouac in the edge of the town, the writer, having secured a small map of Texas, was seated in front of a log fire diligently studying the situation— The deserters must surely be somewhere in the near vicinity— They were certainly not in Cleburne— Where had they disappeared to after leaving Weatherford? Many roads and trails led out of Cleburne—some towards the railroads— No mistake must be made— A sudden inspiration seized me— I woke up the Corporal— "Corporal, find me a two seated carriage or conveyance of some kind with driver—'rake' the town—and get it here as soon as possible; rout out the detachment—and report yourself mounted to me at the same time"— "Never mind the expense"! In about 30 minutes Charlton was there with a closely curtained-in two-seated carriage, carry-all, or Texas "hack", with two mules, and a one-legged driver; also the entire detachment mounted— Amazement was on the faces of all— What was the play?— What was the game being "pulled off" by the "Old Man"? "Corporal Charlton, take your carbine and pistol and get in the front seat with the driver"—and turning to the other Corporal—(Jones)—"You will take our two led horses—and follow this 'hack'—never losing touch with it—but always remaining as much as possible out of sight—about a mile or two in the rear—concealing yourself as much as possible by the timber— Keep your eyes on this 'hack'—one flash of my handkerchief and you will drop further back out of sight if it is open country; two flashes, and you are to come up with your detachment and our led horses at a run—remember, and always keep out of sight as much as possible"— We moved out on the Hillsboro road—inquiries were made all along but with no satisfactory results— We scoured the settlements, ranches and side trails but without avail— We had had a description given us, however, of a certain two-horse team—with a number of men in it, which partially filled the bill— Feeling perfectly sure that they were breaking for the railroad, either at Corsicana or Waxahatchie—yet it was feared that we were on the wrong road— The driver of our conveyance, or "dug out", it seemed, had been a confederate soldier, and had lost a leg at Gettysburg in the desperate charge of Longstreet's Corps on July 2—upon the "Round Tops" and the "Peach Orchard"— He had belonged to the Fifth Texas, Robertson's "Texas Brigade", Hood's Division, and strange to record had confronted the First Brigade—First Division, Fifth Corps, in which the writer had served on that fateful day, and in that death-strewn spot. He immediately recognised an old enemy, became extremely voluble, and insisted upon fighting the battle "o'er again", with many a story and reminiscence of his many campaigns, until, at length, he, not having been let into the secret of our plans, was so inclined to put in his time telling stories that we were in great danger of losing the object of an entire night's hard work— He even wanted to stop his mules to emphasize his points, when much to the "Johnny's" chagrin and to the intense amusement of Charlton, my d'Artagnan Musketeer, the "lines" "by order", were turned over to the latter, while the writer having no whip—prodded the mules along with a sharp stick—Time—and then Time—was our one objective— We were not so sure of our direction— It was getting late—and with our delays we were still some miles from Hillsboro— All was working well in our plans; the detachment was out of sight well to the rear— We emerged from the cover of the timber upon a "hog wallow" prairie—and from this high, rolling hill or divide, when descending to the valley of a small creek, saw ahead—two miles or more—a small train of wagons in the hollow, moving to head this small "branch"— Talk about the thumping of one's heart!! Some intuition told me that my deserters were there; my pulse quickened perceptibly, and I almost shouted to the "Jehu"—who had been allowed to resume the "lines" but was slacking up—to "keep busy,"—and to gather his animals for a rallying burst of magnificent speed— Now the train was seen to split—some going around—while one low canvas-topped two-horse wagon kept on the road for the "branch"— Then I saw a number of men—6 or 8—get out and try to wade across the stream. They were the deserters! of this I now felt sure— I said nothing—but sharply touched the Corporal's elbow, jumped from the "hack" and running back a few yards gave the handkerchief signal "two flashes"— The detachment was in full view on the high ground silhouetted against the sky. The Corporal had closed up too much while we were in the timber, and when emerging—exposed himself to the view of the men in the valley as I had feared— They had seen him, and scenting danger made a wild break— The detachment came forward with our led horses at a gallop—but the deserters, having crossed the stream and scattered, were now heading for the fringe of timber, chaparral and brush which either skirted, or was near, the creek— The Capture Once mounted I shouted for one Corporal to head off the main wagon train on the road—and detain it and hold it at all hazards until my return. Taking Charlton we dashed for the stream. My powerful horse bogged;—Dismounting in water up to my waist, by careful management he was soon out on dry land. Charlton led— "Get after them now, Corporal—Open fire! Shoot over their heads and close to them, but not to kill"— Finely mounted—and one of the crack shots in the regiment, with carbine advanced, he was in his element and "swung out" at a gallop for the men who were trying to gain the bushes or chaparral in the distance— He was an absolutely true type of the handsome, graceful soldier and rider, with the close seat and the American or cow-boy stirrup, and the resourceful, masterful, trained cavalryman of the days closely following the Civil War— Bang! Crack!! Crack!!! went his carbine— As I followed him I could see the dirt and dust sprayed over the fleeing deserters— As the shots whistled and struck about them, they instantly dropped to the ground for safety—and lay there until some men, whom I had recalled from the detachment, had followed me and gathered them up as prisoners— None were to be shot unless they resisted. I gained the road to the brow of a hill overlooking the country. After securing five with no resistance, and being told by them that there were two more—a little darkey near by shouted—"Oh, golly Massa, dere dey go ober de hill, way yonder"— At least two miles away they could be seen running, fairly flying. The Corporal and writer dashed after them, and after a long ride and a diligent search in the bushes, together with a few warning shots—we secured them. With these men and the driver of their team we returned to the train— I had not fully trusted the other Corporal, on account of his seeming indifference, and he had somewhat hampered my plans and movements—so I felt anxious as to whether my orders to hold the train fast had been obeyed. He had, however, stopped the train and held the wagon master, and the whole "outfit" at the point of his carbine, as in a vise. The wagon master was a cool and determined fellow with cold, grey eyes, and a pugnacious nose and chin; he and his teamsters were well armed, their guns showing conspicuously in their holsters—or open belt scabbards— He had been threatening the Corporal, and now, seeing no insignia of rank on my citizen's clothes, he began to threaten me with criminal prosecution as soon as he reached Hillsboro for illegally holding up his train— Visions of Mackenzie's instructions relating to a "violation of the Civil Laws", began to loom up large before my eyes. He saw my hesitation and becoming abusive began to be more insistent for the release of himself and men— Sizing up the situation at a glance, the bluff was made— "Look here, my man! We have found a wagon in your train filled with deserters from the United States Army— I am an officer of the Army—and if you don't stop your abuse I will put you in irons and take you along to the Civil authorities and turn you over on a charge of assisting them to escape"— That quieted him— "Are these all of the teamsters in your train? Produce every man who was with you when it was first sighted, or I will order my men to search it before you can go! Never mind your threats! We are out for deserters". He replied: "These are two men who joined my train a few days ago; they are citizens— I know nothing about them— They can tell their own story." The two men stepped forward in citizen's clothes unarmed and with no "set up" or the slightest appearance or sign of the soldier about them. The larger and older, told with a strong Irish brogue a very straight story; how they had "been working" their way along; had sought the train for "shelter"—had "not been in the country very long", etc. The other was a mere boy. I was about to let them go with the train, none of the detachment or the deserters whom I had already secured being able to recognize or identify them, when my attention was suddenly attracted to the older man's face— It showed distinctly that a heavy beard had but recently been shaved off—and this as winter was coming on— I gave no signs, however, of having made this discovery, but said: "You teamsters can go—but I shall hold these men— If they are not deserters, they can easily clear themselves, and will be released". As I watched the older man's face, I saw him change color, but he maintained his nerve—replying that he would "prosecute me for false arrest and imprisonment," probably taking his cue from the wagon master—who, after more bluster and more threats of what he would do, disappeared in the distance and we never saw or heard of him again. It was a chance on the bluff— Loading the nine men thus accumulated into the old man's wagon, upon reaching Hillsboro, a few miles away, and securing the services of Deputy Sheriff, H. A. Macomber, we and the prisoners were given a good meal at the house of the jailer, J. A. Purnell, the first any had had since leaving Fort R—— and shortly after dark, the jailer leading with a lantern, the prisoners closely guarded, and the three citizens (?) loudly protesting in Chimmie Fadden's vernacular: "Wot 'tell"!—and then adding: "What's the use"! etc., the astounded ranchers of H—— saw this strange procession proceeding to the county jail to give them protection from the howling, icy gale—still blowing— All jails in Texas were then made of huge, square-hewn, green logs—built up solid, and the outside thickly studded with sharp nails— Upon the outside a flight of rickety steps led up to a door heavily padlocked and barred. We entered by file, a sort of chamber or loft, about 12 or 14 feet square. In the centre of the floor was a large trap door with a ring in it— This trap being lifted a ladder was lowered down to the ground floor inside, and the prisoners were ordered to descend into this ground cell in which was but one small grated window, high up—for air only. The ladder then being drawn up and the trap door secured, they were supposed to be safe, as it was eight or ten feet from the floor of the cell to the floor of the loft— In this Hillsboro jail, however, the ladders had been broken and had disappeared, so that the deserters had to be let down by hand, the little short old wagoner coming last— It was most amusing to hear this well paid old scoundrel's squeals and whining, and his piteous appeals for mercy as he hung dangling in mid-air through the "Man hole" before dropping him the four or five feet to the ground. He kicked, squirmed and wriggled in his agony of fright; he moaned, groaned—grunted and sighed; begged, implored and prayed—in the most ridiculous manner— All the time the deserters below him, realizing how fortunate they were in being sheltered from the icy blast of the "Norther" now howling around the corners of the old log jail, were mocking—"booing" and sarcastically commenting on the little man's lack of sand—grit and courage— Having heard much and seen little of these Texas jails, except the outside, and at a distance, my curiosity was aroused to more closely examine one— The jailer tried to persuade me not to take the risk— But after assuring him that I had nothing to fear from these men in going down among them as I knew every one—and handing him my pistols—he lowered me down—passing the lantern down after me. After carefully examining this uninteresting hole very carefully, however, I felt that my curiosity had been amply satisfied—and cheering up the "old man" much to the amusement of the prisoners, all of whom seemed to be contented with their blankets and a comparatively warm shelter from the storm—telling one of the men to give me a "leg up"— I was pulled up by the jailer—all of the prisoners assisting and bidding me a most cheerful "good-night". The next morning after "turning out" the deserters and filling them with a hot breakfast at the jailer's where Charlton and the rest of the detachment with myself had spent the night, they opened up with a long and very strange story— Peters, the spokesman for the deserters, declared that two detectives (?) or, as they called themselves—"constables"—had followed them from near Weatherford, on the Bear Creek road, and arrested them. Instead of being armed as Sergeant Varily had informed the writer, they (the deserters) had parted with all of their carbines before reaching W—— for a good round sum. The pseudo detectives, therefore, found it a comparatively easy matter, with their double barrel shot guns to persuade the unarmed soldiers to "throw up their hands"— They had even started to turn back to Weatherford, when at the suggestion of one of their number negotiations were opened by which they were released by the fake constables—but, at the sacrifice of all the "greenbacks" the entire party possessed— After this compulsory squeeze, the detectives (?) and their plucked friends parted company. The writer resolved, upon his return, to investigate this matter and if the deserter's story proved true—and they had all corroborated Peters' statement—to secure the arrest and indictment of these Border Sharks. The march back was cold and bitter— We were more than 100 miles from Fort R—— No handcuffs or irons could be obtained—and it was decided not to "rope them"— Thick ice was in all the streams— Calling Peters, the most intelligent of the prisoners, to me, the writer laid down the law: "Peters, I am going to march you to Fort R—— and I want no trouble; tell the men they shall be well fed and they shall have shelter whenever it is possible to obtain it— Corporal Charlton will be placed in direct charge of you—'fall in'—the men in the middle of the road in column of twos"— Then turning to the men—so that all could hear me—I added: "You men must keep the middle of the road and obey all orders issued through Corporal C—— by me, without any question or discussion; Any movement by you to bolt the trail, or to escape into the chaparral will only result in your being shot down— You can talk and smoke and have freedom of movement—but you know both of us well enough to understand that there will be no trifling"— At 11 a. m. we started and camped at the Widow Jewell's ranch, 15 miles from Hillsboro— Placing the men in an open corn crib—assigning each a sleeping place and posting a man at the log door—he was ordered to "shoot the first man who left that position without authority from me". This was said loudly in the hearing of every man, and he was then asked if he understood it. For the first time we now ascertained from the prisoners why they had so mysteriously disappeared from the map after leaving Weatherford and after being seen and talked to by Sergt. Varily on the Bear Creek Road—and why we got no trace of them the next night in Cleburne. It seems that just before reaching the town, upon the advice of the wily driver of their get-away wagon—they had turned off the Bear Creek Road and following a blind trail to the right had reached the little settlement of Buchanan—and bivouacking there that night—had come into the Cleburne-Hillsboro road again the next morning—shortly before I sighted them at the small creek or "branch" near H. During all of that miserable night while we were searching the slums and dives of Cleburne, they were at a comfortable, blazing bivouac fire not more than three or four miles away, debating the probabilities of their being followed. At the first opportunity I proved the two citizens—who had been "kidnapped" from the train near Hillsboro—to be deserters— While giving them the "Third degree" in camp the first night after leaving H—— they were thrown off their guard by my suddenly shouting— "Stand Attention, Sir! when talking to an officer"! Which he did instantly. I then had them stripped and found Government shirts and socks on both of them— They then made a "clean breast" of it, declaring that they were recruits of Troop "K" and had been enlisted but two or three months; all of which accounted for their non-military appearance when it was decided to hold them on suspicion— It also accounted for the inability of any one, either in the detachment, or among the old deserters of Troop "B", to identify them. Turning out the prisoners in the morning they were placed in column and the order was repeated— "Shoot dead instantly any man who starts to leave the road without my permission". It had the desired effect. Wherever I could find one they were placed in jail. In passing through Cleburne and stopping off to pay some bills—suspicion having been attracted to another man, I "rounded him up"—and after some strenuous "Third Degree" questioning—he proved to be a deserter from "Troop F" who had preceded the others by a few days— I had now ten deserters, and the "old man" driver of the freight wagon. As we approached Weatherford—I began to give some thought to the two alleged detectives or constables (?), and ransacked my brain as to the method for their capture. The rascally old driver had, after much diplomatic persuasion, informed me that these men were really constables and acting detectives, and one was even then acting as Deputy Sheriff of the County, and lived just outside of W—— While I was doubtful as to my power to arrest either, I determined to make a show of frightening them, and to report their case to the Civil Authorities for their disposal— I commenced a vigorous search— Riding into a ranch, pointed out by the prisoners, I inquired—"does Mr. —— live here"? Being in citizen's clothes and alone, my mission was not suspected— "That is my name", said a man sitting in a chair on the porch— "I arrest you then in the name of the United States Government for accepting bribes of deserters from our army, and allowing them to escape— My men are outside in the road—don't waste any words, but come right along"— To my astonishment, the man was so frightened that mounting his horse, which stood outside, and surrendering his gun—he preceded me to the road—where he came face to face with all of his accusers, who now seeing him under arrest, made bold to unmercifully taunt him with his rascality—shouting—"Hey, Johnnie, where's my $10.00?" "How much of a pile did you pull out of me at Bear Creek (?)" etc., etc., much to the bogus detective's discomfiture and chagrin. They had now the "whip hand". He rode like a little kitten under charge of Corporal Charlton into W—— when a complaint was entered and sworn to by all of the deserters, and he was placed under bonds for his appearance at the Spring term of the U. S. District Court at Tyler, Texas, where, some months later, the writer was ordered from Department Headquarters to appear as a witness against him, and the second constable whom I captured in much the same manner as the first, but nearer Weatherford. The old wagoner pleaded hard, saying that he had never been in such a scrape. It would "kill him to have to go to prison", etc.—but, knowing that Mackenzie was anxious and determined to break up these wholesale desertions that were then taking place in the regiment—many of them with the secret connivance and assistance of citizens, although it was never discovered that any of them were constables—and would endorse the most extreme measures I might make to accomplish it, I promptly placed him under bonds—and left him in W—— in charge of the Civil Authorities. The Discovery—The Deserter "Squeals" The streams were all frozen up— The weather was still icy cold— So far I had been unable to get any trace, or sure clue of the missing carbines which the men had carried with them when deserting, and sold. The deserters refused to divulge their whereabouts except to hint that they were somewhere between Crawford's Ranch and Fort R—— At last I determined to use heroic methods— At that date such methods were recognized as legitimate, if not legal in bringing recalcitrants to their senses, instead of resorting to the slow and laborious, as well as questionable methods of Court Martial. These methods were legacies of the Civil War, and in the field, away from the complicated machinery of Post Administration—and on such duty—and under such wide open instructions as Mackenzie had given us, I considered it absolutely necessary to employ— I resolved to select the weakest minded man in the group of deserters, and, in the presence of them, the two corporals and the entire detachment, "tie him up by the thumbs", until he "squealed"— Such punishment was of almost daily occurrence at the great Draft Rendezvous— This was done with the desired result—and I located the missing arms, the property of the United States which I was out after, without further trouble. This man was Crafts— Placing the deserters in Mrs. Crawford's corn bins, the ground still being covered with snow and ice and the weather bitter cold—I determined to send in a mounted courier or runner to Mackenzie. Writing a hasty message—a personal note on a piece of soiled brown paper—a brief announcement of the capture was made, but reciting no details—also the condition of both the men and horses—"all nearly exhausted from cold and loss of sleep—the prisoners nearly barefooted, and with sore and blistered feet, chafed legs, etc.—but plenty to eat; horses unshod." He was urged to "send a wagon, some handcuffs—ropes—rations, etc., to meet me somewhere on the road—and without delay—between Crawford's Ranch and Fort R—— I was proceeding slowly", etc.— The wagon met me, but not until I was within a few miles of the post—and just as the prisoners were emphatically exclaiming that they "could go no further." They were bundled into the wagon, much to their and my relief, for these footsore and chafed cavalrymen, as I had seen them in October after being dismounted in the stampede near CaÑon Blancho, were now in the same demoralized condition, and it is extremely doubtful if they could have been pushed any further afoot. Hardin's Ranch—Two Viragos—The Search—The Threat When Hardin's Ranch, 16 miles from Fort R——, was reached, I bivouacked my men and taking Charlton proceeded to reconnoitre— I found two tall, gaunt, leathery, bony, unprepossessing, sour-looking females— With some hesitation, I approached my delicate mission or undertaking and began to interview them, using all of the engaging manners and suave (?) diplomacy I was capable of—which, as a soldier—so I have been told—has never been of a very pronounced character. It availed me nothing— To the inquiry as to whether any of the men were at home, and if any carbines had been left at the ranch by these soldiers when going down the country, the reply was curtly snapped out—"No"!— They 'lowed they hadn't never seen no carbines; the "old man" wasn't home— I politely asked if I might "look about the ranch and premises"— That stirred the gall of these specimens of the gentle, tender sex— "No! you can't"!— Then I began a mild form of the "Third Degree"—and bringing up the man who had—under pressure—"Squealed"—to identify the women—and to make an even stronger statement as to the disposal of their carbines—we were met with nothing but repulses, followed by foul abuse—such as: "You blue-bellied Yankees better go away from here—if the "old man" was here he would lick you uns outen yer boots", etc.— I was not, at this point, inclined to spoil the reputation I had already acquired or sacrifice my good name, or make any slip by any "Violation of the Civil Law" now in full force in all parts of Texas—in view of Mackenzie's explicit instructions on that point— Neither did I feel inclined to be beaten just at this stage of the game—the end of this frightfully exhausting and most momentous trip, or to be balked and bluffed by these two raw bone, belligerent termagants, and lose the fruits of my thus far assured success— I wanted to make a clean "sweep up" of my trip, and, in order to do so—I must have those carbines, now that I felt I was so close to them— So I swung around to other tactics—or, rather Grand Strategy— "If you don't produce those carbines from their places of concealment, which I know to be here or about your premises, I shall be compelled to search your ranch"— This last shot hit hard— More and more abuse, coupled with more threats of what the "old man" would do to me. The climax had now come— I could not see my way clear to bluff any longer— I felt that I must act at once and decisively— "Corporal Charlton, call the men at once— Search this ranch thoroughly— If necessary rip up the floors, and turn over the "loft"; ransack all of the out buildings, but be careful that you do not injure these ladies" (?) "If they resist or try to use any guns, treat them as you would 'he' men; jump on them, and securely rope them—and don't let them get 'the drop' on you— You take charge of the job and see that it is well done"— His steel-blue eyes flashed— My musketeer Corporal—"d'Artagnon"—sprang at it with a relish— He had heard, and been the object—of much of the abuse of these scolding viragos— The ranch was thoroughly searched—the "rough-neck" women offering no resistance except with their bitter tongues which shot off the vilest sort of "Billings gate"— It was without avail. The carbines were evidently concealed at some point distant from the house— As we were about to leave—the women, unconquered—again spat out— "If the 'old man' wuz heah he would lick you uns out o' yer boots". Here was a fine chance for another bluff. I walked up to them, and in my most impressive manner gave here this decisive Coup d'Etat— "If your old man doesn't deliver those carbines into Fort Richardson by 10 o'clock to-morrow morning—I will bring this same detachment out here with a raw hide lariat and hang him to that oak tree"— They had seen me ransack the ranch, they had known what that threat of hanging meant in the reconstruction days among the "bad men"—the "gun men" and desperadoes of the far South West— They showed signs of wilting—and I departed, inwardly cursing the luck which had deserted me at the last moment and compelled me to make a raw bluff which I knew full well I could not carry out or enforce in view of Mackenzie's most strenuous official objections— Land the Prisoners—The "Old Man" Makes Good Reaching Fort R—— in a few hours and reporting to Mackenzie the prisoners were "turned over"—and I was just seeking a shave, a hot bath—some good grub and a rest from the dreadful "wear and tear" of one of the most wearing and completely exhaustive duties I had ever performed, either during the Civil War or later, when Mackenzie sent for me— I was still in a very dirty and bedraggled suit of citizen clothes— I needed complete relaxation and rest from my week's gruelling trip—during which, with the exception of two nights, I had slept, or tried to sleep—"out in the open" in this howling icy "Norther"—and with much responsibility pressing upon me. "Ask the General to please excuse me until I shave, wash, and change my clothes"— Word came back at once— "Tell him that Gen. Hardie is here and wishes to see him particularly. Never mind his personal appearance—come now just as he is"! It was virtually an order— So I went but in a condition of wilted militarism. Mackenzie opened up with a most cordial introduction to Gen. H—— and the remark: "Gen. Hardie, I want you to see what my officers of Civil War record" (I inwardly grew profane) "can accomplish when they are sent out in weather like this to get results under merely 'verbal instructions', and acting alone under their own initiative, good judgment and discretion— He has done far more than I expected of him and I am extremely gratified". He continued with profuse congratulations, thanks and personal commendations. "Congratulations"—"Thanks"—"Special Commendations," Etc.—A Soothing Gen. James A. Hardie, then an Assistant Inspector General U. S. Army—the one time friend and confidential Military Adviser of Abraham Lincoln, whom he selected to send on that delicate mission to Frederick City, Md., to relieve Gen. Hooker from command of the Army of the Potomac just prior to the Battle of Gettysburg—appointing Gen. Meade to succeed him—happened to be at Fort R—— on his annual tour of inspection of the frontier posts. After such an introduction from Mackenzie—Gen. Hardie was very informal— He was a very handsome man, then about 48 years of age— He was very courteous and had an exceedingly attractive personality— With the disparity in our ages, he seemed, at that period, to be a very "old man". He had served in the Mexican War, and died as a Brevet Maj. General, Dec. 14, 1876— Placing both hands on my shoulders he said: "Young man, I am proud of you— General Mackenzie ought to be proud of having such an officer in his regiment." "I want to personally congratulate and warmly thank you for the fine work you have done— It was a duty of very great responsibility, and you should be commended not only by the Department, but by the entire Army. I believe it is a record that you should be very proud of." In rehearsing my adventures to them, I came to the incident at Hardin's ranch, and my encounter with the two "Jezabels"— Mackenzie flared up— "Didn't I particularly impress upon you in my 'verbal instructions' that you must not 'violate the Civil Law' in any way—I——" Without waiting for him to finish his sentence, I replied: "Well, Sir! I have violated no Civil Law. I have hung nobody as yet, only made a huge bluff. You will see those carbines here to-morrow morning". The "old man" who was going to "lick me out of my boots"—promptly at 10 o'clock—rolled into Fort R—— with all of the carbines. I happened to be at the Adjutant's office— "Is the Gineral in"? "He is"!— "I've brought in them guns"!— After making a statement more or less satisfactory of how they happened to come into his possession, and after Mackenzie had "hauled him over the coals" for a "send off"—the rancher departed—"a sadder but a wiser" man. I never got any sweet looks from the "ladies" after that when duty called me past that ranch. Lawton came in a day or two later. He certainly was "out of luck"— The deserters had not headed his way. He had gone farther than the writer— Way up into the Indian Nation (now Oklahoma), and not only had not succeeded in "bagging" anybody, but, most unfortunately, one of the best men in his detachment deserted, taking his horse, arms and entire equipment with him. After ascertaining what had come my way, he seemed to be much crest fallen. A few days afterwards Mackenzie, upon hearing that another man of Troop "F" was known to be a deserter, and had been located rather vaguely as being in the "Keechi Valley"—sent for me, and, after smilingly giving me as well as he was able, the location of the ranch—and announcing that as I had been proved the "champeen" catcher of deserters, he was going to send me out after him— He trusted that I would not belie my "reputation"— After a day's trip in fine weather I was able to definitely place him, and after watching the ranch all day—surrounded it, and, without any trouble, captured him as he came in from his work in the field— My record now was: 11 deserters and 3 citizens, two of them Constables—with all the arms carried away from the post. Corporal Charlton had proved himself a very invaluable man. As a soldier he was wonderfully resourceful and active; in action he was intense, energetic and decisive. With his intelligence and good, horse sense, he would, even without the complete education which some men have without sense—have made a good all round commissioned officer—a credit to the regiment and to the Army— It is a pity that we did not have more of his type with which to build up the army with practical men of his caliber—instead of having so much over educated material. I had gained much valuable experience in the methods of unearthing rascality, and in accomplishing results, under dreadful exposure and hardships; many trials and difficulties. Shortly after this the writer received a letter of thanks from the Department. As it is the only one that he ever received, and as he never expects to receive another—it is esteemed as a rare curiosity—and it is modestly added to complete the record and round out the story. HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF TEXAS, Second Lieutenant ROBERT G. CARTER, 4th Cavalry, SIR:—I have the honor to acknowledge receipt of your report of the 9th ultimo, relative to your pursuit of deserters under Special Orders No. 280, Fort Richardson, Texas, dated November 29, 1871,—which resulted in the capture of ten deserters. The Department Commander desires me to express to you his gratification at your success, and his special commendation for the zeal and ability displayed by you. The good conduct and faithful services of the enlisted men I am Sir, very respectfully, your ob't servant, Military Experience and Common Sense vs. Military Education and If a man is not endowed with good common sense, or it is not an inherent trait—no amount of training he might receive at West Point or any other Military institution for the purpose of educating that sense into him, or cultivating what little sense he possesses—especially the military or fighting sense—or, any effort to convert him into a practical soldier, could make him one, and the time and effort will have been worse than wasted— It is simply impossible to supply in him by mere education what he is lacking through nature's gift—and this truth—absolutely axiomatic—applies to all walks of life— Good sense, combined with a liberal education well directed along right lines, makes for success in all pursuits, whether as President, lawyer, doctor, minister, the business man or the professional soldier— But all the education in the wide universe, unaccompanied by good sense, spells defeat for any class—and would not rescue a man from common mediocrity— The world's trail is strewn with such senseless wrecks— They are mere human derelicts on the ocean of life—and the more a man of that type is educated or over educated the worse it is; and the more accentuated does his failure become—the more apparent his lack of common sense, and the more liability there is to wreckage— In no other profession does this become so painfully apparent or more pronounced than in that of the professional soldier, when some desperate effort is being made to create—manufacture, or transform a little man in uniform, a parvenue or a man of mediocre caliber—into a great commander of men—one whose horse sense is particularly lacking—or which cannot by any amount of education or training be developed—and worse still when he himself through an over supply of egotism or conceit is not, nor can he be made aware of his failing, but bungles along until disaster overtakes him and his command, and every thing connected with him and them— The writer claims that there has not been, nor is there now sufficient care taken in the selection of candidates for entrance to the Military Academy. Little or no heed is taken of their aptitude or fitness for a Military career—and that there are in the service to-day many officers who, from this lack of fitness and deficiency in common sense, are an incubus to the Army—and should be "canned"— Competitive examinations in Congressional Districts develop a class of bright students—some honor men ranking high in their class studies and highly specialized along certain lines, but who, from lack of inherent qualities, fail in the essentials that go to make up an alert, well-balanced, clear-headed, resourceful, decisive, "cracker-jack"—rough and tumble soldier in the field— It is not in them— Those who have had campaign and battle-field experience—have all seen this— Entrance to West Point on certificates or diplomas from High Schools do not altogether fill the bill either—for they are apt to be guided by political favoritism or Congressional pull rather than a selection on general merit and fitness for a military life[A]—based generally upon good health—a sound body and a clear, receptive mind—"Mens sana in corpore sano" but, above all things the one dominating desire to adopt the Army as a life career alone—combined with plenty of good, sound—horse sense—West Point will do the rest in the way of preparation and training— Many of the College and School systems are not uniform or in any way co-ordinated with the class instructions at West Point—and much that these students have gone over in Freshmen—Sophomore—Junior or even Senior courses have to be undone—gone over again—or entirely reversed— The writer has seen a College junior utterly fail or "fall down" at his preliminary examination for lack of thoroughness and drill in the three "R's"— All this is a waste of time— If then, the student's bent is not inclined to an Army life—and his heart is not in it—but to the law, medicine or the ministry—there is more waste and loss of time—in trying to convert a good minister, lawyer, doctor or grocer into a mighty poor soldier— All of these qualifications, and predilections—the individual tastes and preferences of the young candidates should be considered, looked into and carefully weighed in selecting, educating and launching men into a career where they, by rapid promotion, are bound to become the future ranking officers and commanders of our Armies— Many a slip and disaster have occurred in an Army by misplaced judgment—slowness of decision and lack of common sense in trying to fit a "square peg into a round hole" or by educating a man for the service and permitting him to attain high rank and high command before it shall have been discovered that he not only does not possess the necessary qualifications for the same but is absolutely deficient in good sense—good judgment, decisive action, or even the ordinary military instincts to maintain the high standard of efficiency and success pertaining thereto—and upon which all depends— In a garrison of 10 troops of Cavalry and three Companies of Infantry—Mackenzie had not only carefully gone over the entire roster from which to select two officers upon whose experience and good judgment he could absolutely depend for the performance of a duty in which he not only wanted but expected and demanded decisive results, but he had revolved all the possibilities and probabilities of dismal failure had he selected any other than Lawton and myself. [A] Theodore Roosevelt in his "Letters to His Children"—pp. 87-89, referring to his son "Ted" entering West Point, says: "It would be a great misfortune for you to start into the Army or Navy as a career and find that you had mistaken your desires and had gone in without fully weighing the matter. You ought not to enter unless you feel genuinely drawn to the life as a life-work. If so, go in, but not otherwise." * * "Mr. Loeb (Secretary to President Roosevelt) says he wished to enter the army because he did not know what to do, could not foresee whether he would succeed or fail in life, and felt that the army would give him a living and a career. Now, if this is at bottom of your feeling I should advise you not to go in. I should say yes to some boys, but not to you." If all fathers had given as good advice to their sons who have been aspirants to that kind of military glory which would give them "a living and a career", we would have been saved the mortification of "canning" some of our graduates of West Point during this world war, who having acquired the "career" were not worth the powder with which to blow them out of their O. D. (Olive Drab) uniforms. It is hoped that the writer will neither be charged with petty conceit, undue egotism nor personal vanity in making these simple declarations of facts the absolute truth of which never was, nor ever could be gainsayed by any officer of that period in the Fourth Cavalry. In this entire campaign after these deserters, success was dependent, not upon any study or knowledge of tactics, strategy, or any game of war, but largely upon good, common sense, sound judgment—almost intuition—a ready resourcefulness and quick, decisive action— It was practically outside of a theoretical conception of any war problem—as we understand it, but included within the scope of its practical activities. No book has ever been written, or ever will be, which could begin to lay down any cut and dried plan of action, rules, or any fundamental principles in a case like this, or hundreds of other cases similar to the performance of such special duties, any more than a text book could have been written prior to 1914 on how to deal with the German methods of conducting a war for the subjugation of the world by trench, barbed wire and dug-out systems along the Hindenberg lines, etc. All the study of a life time involving such problems, or military knowledge, would be of no avail to some men,—whether civilians or soldiers—unless they possessed, at the same time, plenty of resourcefulness and horse sense and could readily adjust themselves to the ever changing conditions of those same problems. The factors never remain fixed or constant. It is the same in battle and with the factors controlling it—which accounts for the lack of success of many so called soldiers by their failure to get away from fixed rules. There is one word that seems to involve the main spring of a soldier's action in all such emergencies—and that is—Experience—and the practical application of that experience to all of the problems of life whether great or small, but especially in puzzling situations like this, where the factors are dependent on no fixed rules—are never constant—and therefore events so shape themselves in such rapid succession that without quick, decisive action based upon one's resources and sound judgment gained by experience—the dependence upon study of any books which might bear in any way upon such conditions would, not only prove a most ridiculous farce, but would be offering a premium on commonplace student soldiers—obtuseness and asinine stupidity. There is such a thing in the development of a soldier along certain lines for practical work, as over education, as well as over training— In the one case he thinks he knows so much that he cannot be taught any more, and is apt, therefore, to eliminate entirely the element of common sense—the one factor for success upon which he must largely depend—and to neglect to apply some of the most simple and practical principles in his earlier education—and, in the other case he may go stale, and lose much of his spirit, enthusiasm and energy while waiting to test out his knowledge in the real field of endeavor and practical experience. Soldiers Not Born It has been said that "artists and poets are born"—and "soldiers are made". True it is, however, that Soldiers are not born. There is not, and there never will be such a thing as a born soldier, not even in a hereditary sense. They must be trained. But—to educate and train a man to be a soldier certain basic elements are absolutely necessary. Ever since the world began, and hero worship and the cheers, applause and adulations were first bestowed on such warriors as CÆsar, Hannibal, Alexander and Frederick the Great, Napoleon, and on numerous other returning conquerors, it has become well known that certain elements or basic principles have been necessary upon which to build in order to develop and produce the really great soldier. Taking the raw material to educate and train, it has been found essential that a man should possess one or more of the following requisites. Military bent, instinct or intuition— Military aptitude and spirit—and any one or all of these must necessarily be combined with good, sound, common sense. All, or any one of these elements must either be inherent or latent and ready for development—for it is—and has been found—absolutely impossible to develop these essentials in any one man by a mere process of military education or intensive training— Unless a man possesses one or more of these necessary requisites or material to work on, such education or training is so much wasted effort or labor lost. It has frequently happened that men, without possessing any of these basic elements, not even military sense—or instinct, or the military spirit—have undergone a military education and severe intensive training to fit them for what they have been led to believe through their theoretical instruction are the problems of battle which they have got to face up to and overcome. Sometimes it has been found necessary that this initiatory effort shall be made on a real (not a sham) battle-field. The shock—the rude awakening, the stress, strain and disillusionment of real battle has then come with such a startling surprise to some men not physically up to a soldier's standard as to throw them off their feet—break them down before it is discovered that lack of physical strength alone debars them from the military profession, and so destroys their morale and esprit de corps as to render them unfit for further field service. The ever changing and rapid developments of battle are so great and constantly pressing that they call for all there is in any man—and in the twinkling of an eye; his cool courage—his level-headed judgment—his every ounce of resourcefulness—and instant decision is called into such rapid action and it is so quickly drawn upon as to afford no opportunity for much study, long deliberation, or the privilege of consulting with others. During this sudden trying out process—the most strenuous that can be applied to any human being as a complete test of the would be and so called professional soldier—he may develop just this lack of stamina and courage— Of what possible use then is the swivel chair soldier who, without military bent, instinct or spirit—the military coup d'oeuil or sense—rushes into battle only to find that it is not what has been described to him—that the spectacular and moving picture feature of it is all lacking—and that he is, in every sense out of place in command of battle service soldiers and an entire "misfit." Could anything be more pitiful or pathetic than to see an over educated, over trained soldier of twenty or thirty years' service who has never been "tried out" when he first makes this discovery? The writer has seen it! These men when faced up with responsibility, and an emergency, exigency or crisis arises—always "fall down". They are soon led to recognize their absolute unfitness for the military profession, for a military command or to handle any problem growing out of a military position requiring ripe experience along the lines of ready judgment, rapid action and quick decision. It is generally too late then, however, few having the good sense to recognize their failure and leave the service in time to avoid the disaster that is sure to overtake either themselves or the unfortunate men under their command and subject to their blunders and almost criminal short comings. This disposes of an officer's going into battle before he is ripe—or has been given the battle instinct and battle sense to try out his theoretical battle knowledge in the presence of any enemy on the assumption that the book knowledge he has gained has fitted him for such a test out. |
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